


What It Feels Like

by Niitza



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Dean Feels, Engineer Dean, Fluff, High School, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Professor Castiel, Student Dean, fuck gender roles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-10
Updated: 2016-08-10
Packaged: 2018-08-07 23:07:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7733350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niitza/pseuds/Niitza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Going to college when most of your classmates are young enough to be your kids is difficult, but Dean knew that going in. Having some long-buried memories dredged up by a member of the faculty, on the other hand? That's not what he signed up for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What It Feels Like

At thirty-six, Dean Winchester likes to think that he has a good grasp on who he is—or, at least, a better one than he used to. And he likes to think that he has gotten better not only at accepting it, but also at letting other people see the whole of it.

For years, he pretended. Tried to appear a certain way—not that all of it was a lie. What Charlie affectionately calls his 'Macho Man life-size cutout act', the guy who likes classic rock and classic cars, greasy burgers and beer, skin mags, action flicks and most of all women, just wasn't the whole truth. Because he'll get carried away listening to ballads and bob his head to bubbly pop songs. He enjoys baking his own pies and eating them with a comforting cup of coffee. He keeps himself clean, likes it when his place is spotless, confining grease and dirt to the garage. He has a taste for lengthy psychological thrillers, a weakness for soap operas. And more often than not he notices guys too, and every time he's given in to it has been a mind-blowing experience.

Long story short: Dean Winchester likes a lot of stuff that are downright girly. He's working on believing it doesn't make him any less of a man, like Charlie says.

Maybe one day he'll get there.

For now, being more open about that side of things is still a struggle. It makes him feel exposed. Vulnerable.

It's a similar feeling to the one inhabiting him right now, as he walks through campus during the first week of term. The textbooks he carries under one arm make it obvious that he is here as a student, but even more obvious is how much older he is than everyone else.

Most people notice. Dean can see them pause, ponder, try to fit him into a plausible category—former convict, PTSD-ridden veteran, rehabilitated addict? None of them will actually ask. And knowing the truth—that up until now Dean neither had the time, nor the means, nor most of all the will to study—wouldn't change much about the confusion and judgment following him wherever he goes.

It's uncomfortable. But Dean's been learning not to care about what people think of him, of his tastes and life choices. No matter how many stares he gathers, he won't let them scare him off—if only not to disappoint Sam, who, after months of fighting, managed to get his way and is paying his fees.

( _Only_ his fees. Dean is a lot of things, but he is very much not a bloodsucker.)

The weird vibe he gets from his classmates aside, he knows succeeding still won't be easy. Even when he was familiar with the educational system, he wasn't what you'd call a good student. Then he dropped out, and only scraped through his GED because his employer promised him a raise if he took it.

That was almost twenty years ago. Now Dean isn't sure what he's supposed to do and how he's supposed to do it. Sam assures him that it'll come to him, that now that he has the time and the motivation to succeed—two things he sure lacked back in high school—he'll figure it all out, and pass with flying colors.

Dean tries to pretend that he has the same faith in himself as his brother does, that what is thrumming through him is eagerness rather than apprehension. He stomps down his fear of getting lost, of entering the wrong classroom, of not understanding a thing, of having missed something he absolutely needed to do to prepare for one class or another. He tries to focus on the positive instead. This morning, for instance, he has the first session of a class he's very much looking forward to. It's his mandatory humanities course, but luckily Dean found one in literature about _20th century utopian and dystopian fiction_ and that sounds awesome.

With a spring in his steps he finds the right building, the right room, checks his timetable for the thirtieth time and compares it to the one hung beside the door— _Mod. Amer. Lit_ , it says on the 10 a.m. slot, _Dr. Novak_. Thus reassured, he decides it's safe to enter.

The teacher is already here at the front of the class, talking to a student who came up to his desk. As Dean reaches the threshold the man huffs in amusement, his eyes crinkling while he ducks his head—and Dean, before he's even set foot into the room proper, stops.

Because he knows this man.

He knows this man, and suddenly he's seventeen again, in high school again, lurking under the bleachers and surreptitiously watching football practice, pretending he's not even though there is no one else here to see, pretending his eyes are trying to catch a glimpse up the cheerleaders' skirts instead of constantly straying back to the quarterback, to Castiel Novak. Castiel Novak, the star of the team, the star of the school, the guy who's sailing through his countless AP classes and headed straight for the Ivy League, who in less than a year will be off like a shot to begin the kind of life dreams are made of, and with whom Dean will never have a single conversation, because in less than a week Dean will turn eighteen, and he will drop out, and he will start working full-time, and he will never see Castiel Novak again.

So for once, for now, he thinks he might as well indulge, he thinks he might as well let himself _look_. Novak is in full gear, his jersey enhancing his lean build, his tight-fitting pants showing off his strong thighs, his perky ass. He has taken off his helmet. His hair is the usual mess, and he threads a distracted hand through it while he talks to that bitch Meg Master, the head cheerleader. Pompoms in hand, legs on display, she smirks up at him and makes him smile, makes him laugh—and Dean, alone in his corner, hidden in the shadows, feels the most wretched kind of envy.

And for the first time—and the last—he finds himself entertaining… a fantasy, of sorts: the thought of another world, another universe where Dean Winchester was born a girl.

In that universe, everything is better, everything is okay. He does the groceries on time and cooks and does laundry and cleans and most of all he's freaking good at all of it, because girls always are, aren't they? He wouldn't fuck it up all the time—he wouldn't burn the soup trying to heat it up faster, he wouldn't break yet another plate while doing the dishes, he wouldn't shrink Sam's favorite t-shirt in the wash nor iron burn the collar of the last shirt dad had that was without holes, he wouldn't bleach a lighter spot on the carpet when trying to clean a tomato stain. If he were a girl, he would have his head screwed on right, he would know how to think things through, how to be _organized_. He'd know how to draw a budget for the house, so that he'd always know which bill has to be given priority so their power doesn't get cut off _again_ , he'd always manage to put enough money to the side for when Sammy inevitably needs new shoes, he might even get a say on how much alcohol dad buys and drinks. And if not, at least John would never get so drunk at the bar that Dean would have to go fetch him after last call to carry him back home, because John would never do that to his daughter, would never put her in that kind of danger, would he? He wouldn't disappear for weeks at a time either, would never leave her alone to fend off for herself and for Sammy—and even if he did, as a girl Dean would be so much better at managing everything, he would've found a job at a café or a bar or even a restaurant, he would know how to play the customers, he'd get _amazing_ tips and so wouldn't need to take on extra undeclared hours, wouldn't need to start working full-time. He would be able to stay in school, hell, he would probably know how to multitask well enough to actually get his homework done more often than not, as a girl he wouldn't be a complete lost cause. And instead of loitering around waiting for Sammy to be done with his homework or with whatever today's club is, he might even be in a club himself, on a team. Hell, he _would_ make a damn hot cheerleader, he would've kicked Masters off the top of that pyramid _ages_ ago; and _he_ would be the one talking to Novak, _he_ would be the one making him smile, making him laugh, maybe even _dating_ him, or at least wanting to, and it would _all be okay_ —

Although if he's being honest, it would be enough for Novak to simply know he exists, to look at him, just _once_. To look at him, and not see some useless loser who's 90% crap.

And it's definitely Castiel Novak now, in that classroom, in that college forever after, still so far away, still oblivious while Dean looks on from afar. His hair is darker than it used to be but it's still a mess; as for the rest of him, his figure, his legs, his hands, his fucking smile, it's all the same. He fumbles with his tie as he speaks, trying to straighten it, in vain because it's so badly done that it falls backwards. Yet somehow that small fault, that small crack in the chassis only looks dorky, it comes off as cute or, worse, combined as it is with his rolled up sleeves revealing tan forearms, as _attractive_. And Dean…

Dean has faced the faintly surprised, clearly skeptical drawl of the board during his admission interview, he puts up with the stares and whispers of the other students wherever he goes, with all the seats around him remaining empty whenever he sits down somewhere, he makes himself not bristle when professors and teaching assistants do a double take when they see him, but _this_ —

This, he can't deal with.

He turns tail, and flees.

 

*

 

 _What are the chances, though?_ he muses over the next few weeks, can't help but think over and over again even as he tries—and fails—to forget the whole incident. He had a hard time finding another humanity class that fit his schedule; the one he had to settle for is in freaking gender studies, and he's about the only dude in the room. The only way he'll make it alive is if he keeps his mouth resolutely shut the whole semester, he's sure—and screw the 25% for participation in his grade.

But what are the chances? That out of all the colleges in the US, Novak would end up teaching at the very same one Dean settled for in the end—if only because it's the only one that would have him?

He's not surprised that Novak ended up a professor. Or maybe he is, but only because he expected him to reach even higher—become a lawyer, or a surgeon, or a CEO, or even a politician. Or because, as a professor, Novak shouldn't be teaching at a community college, he should be blowing students' minds at a top university, at something like Stanford, teaching genius kids at his level—like Sam. They're both carved out of the same rock, Sam and Castiel; solid, precious, some serious quality stuff.

Dean isn't. He feels his years, remembers almost failing his GED, and sees the immeasurable gap between them more clearly than ever.

He can still do this, though. Novak being at the same school doesn't have to matter, it _won't_ matter. Dean will be careful choosing his classes, he'll avoid the literature department. He'll keep his head down and work and work and work, and everything will be okay. He has better things to do than to obsess over this.

Besides, he's still getting used to the rhythm of classes, to all the readings he has to do. He remains nervous at the idea of missing something, of forgetting, of not understanding what's asked of him. And it's not like he's been making any friend who could guide him. He won't ask Sam, because his little brother paying his fees is humiliating enough, no matter how many bullshit lyrics the guy spouts about giving back. As for Dean's classmates, they have chosen to simply pretend he's not here and get on with their business on their own side of the room. The only student Dean's exchanged more than a brief sentence with is a kid named Kevin, with whom he's been paired up in calculus because neither of them is the right age—Dean nearly old enough to be everyone's dad, Kevin looking like he took a wrong turn outside of middle school and ended up here by skipping high school altogether.

The kid is terrified of him. But things are getting better, Dean wagers. Maybe someday soon he'll be able to ask for some pointers without Kevin running for the hills screaming.

For now though he'll have to keep his fingers crossed that he's not doing anything wrong, and work. At least the weather is nice, so much so that Dean can park himself at a table outside to do his readings.

It's what he's doing this afternoon, frowning down at his gender studies textbook. The chapter is not an easy read, and not because of how elaborate the language is—although Dean frequently reaches for the notebook in which he's started to scribble the definitions of weird words that keep popping up like everyone knows what they mean, not just nerdy academics. No, what makes it difficult is how the text, well, _resonates_ with him. He wouldn't have expected it from an introductory work written by some woman in a stuffy office, in a university he'll never step foot into, in a city he'll never visit. And part of him rebels, because _no way_ some book explaining the general lines of feminism and of concepts like 'hypermasculinity' and 'intersectionality' has anything to do with him or his life—except for how the very chapter he's reading points out all the ways in which it can.

He's so engrossed in his reading, half telling himself that he's just understanding it wrong, half afraid he's getting it all too right, that he doesn't notice the person approaching his table until they stop right beside it and ask:

"Excuse me?"

Dean, expecting some student wanting to know whether the other side of the table is taken, glances up—and does a double take because it's not a student. It's Castiel Novak.

Shit.

"I hope I'm not disturbing you too much," Novak says, looking down at the book Dean's reading—and whose content suddenly feels far too intimate and compromising.

"No, not at all," Dean says, slamming the cover shut. A mistake, since the title stand now in plain view. He tries to push it away, to cover it up with his notes without being too obvious about it.

He definitely misses by a mile.

"It's okay." He can feel a flush creeping up his cheeks. He laces his fingers together, hoping to look cool and collected instead. "What is it?"

"This is going to sound—" Novak breaks off, huffs out a breath and asks: "Are you Dean Winchester?"

Dean freezes. Why is Novak asking? Is he going to have Dean sanctioned for dropping out of his class before the first session? If so, how did he know what Dean looked like? But if that's not it, then why… _how_?

"Yes," he says in a voice that's way too high and way too weak. "Why?"

A small, somewhat awkward smile briefly curves Novak's lips. "You probably don't remember," he says. "But we went to high school together? I'm Castiel Novak."

For a second, all Dean can do is stare.

"I remember," he almost blurts, and feels his mortification rise—until Novak's face blooms into a smile.

"May I sit?" he asks, gesturing at the table.

"Sure." Dean starts gathering his notes and books to make room, even though there is no need. Novak slings the strap of his satchel over his head and puts it beside him on the bench as he sits.

Why is he sitting?

Why is he talking to Dean?

How come he even remembers him?

"I gather you're a student here?" Novak—Castiel?—asks, eyeing the mess Dean is vainly trying to control.

"Yeah," Dean says. "Sam—my little brother—is putting me through it." Way to go, Winchester, not one sentence and he already knows how pathetic you are that your _little brother_ has to pay for your ass to finally get an education at nearly forty. "I gather _you_ are a professor," he adds, as a distraction.

"I am," Novak says, followed by: "May I ask what you are studying?"

"Trying to study, you mean," Dean mutters. He sees Novak's mouth twitch, hopefully in amusement. It's enough of an encouragement for him to reply, despite his confusion at this conversation even taking place: "Engineering. What do you teach?"

"American literature of the 20th century." Novak is now definitely smiling, even if it's mostly with his eyes. He seems to be enjoying their impromptu Q&A game. "Why engineering?"

Dean shrugs. "Spent years working on cars, after a while you start getting ideas about how they could be improved. Only you need a degree for people to listen to you." Novak nods his head sagely. Dean narrows his eyes. "Why American literature of the 20th century?"

_Why are you talking to me?_

"I am endlessly fascinated by the ways in which our authors try to deal with the great horrors of that century," he says, plain and somewhat blunt—and okay, that's not what Dean was expecting. Given the way Novak's smile has turned into a faint smirk, he knows it. "Is this your first year here?"

"Yeah." Dean flashes a grin that probably looks far more confident than he feels. "Guess we'll have to wait and see if it goes well enough for a second one afterwards." He pauses. "Is this _your_ first year here?"

"No," Novak says, but doesn't expand. "Do you think you'll transfer to a four year program at the end of your second year?"

"I don't know," Dean replies slowly, because this is starting to go a bit far. "What's with all the questions, man?"

 _Since when are you even interested?_ he doesn't ask.

Novak looks abashed. "I'm sorry," he says. "I'm being intrusive." His hands shift on the table, like they're longing for a pen or a piece of paper to fiddle with. "It's just…" he goes on after a while, "I wondered, over the years, what had become of you."

Dean stares at him. He doesn't know what to even _think_.

"Didn't know you even knew who I was," he finally manages. "Much less noticed I was gone."

"I did," Novak says softly. He smiles. "You had that old leather jacket. You wore it all the time, even at the beginning of summer."

Dean nods. He remembers that jacket, the weight of it on his shoulders. He'd gotten it from his dad, back when John had still been making an effort. Some sort of gift to celebrate him starting high school. He'd been so proud of wearing it, that first day. And he'd kept wearing it for years afterwards, long after John had ceased to be a dad, because having it felt like he still was, somehow.

Incidentally, it had also been the only thing Dean ever needed to plant the character he was presenting at school—the bad seed, the wannabe rebel who never turned any homework in and skipped classes more often than not. That, accompanied by just the right amount of attitude, had ensured the teachers considered him a lost cause from the second week of class, and soon stopped caring about him altogether.

"You spent most of your time frowning," Novak goes on, still reminiscing. "Looking into space like nothing in that place could hold your attention, or could be as important as what was happening inside your head." He pauses. "I always wondered what it was that preoccupied you so much."

Nothing as fascinating as he imagined, Dean suspects. The inside of Dean's head in high school was nothing but basic math and to-do-lists he constantly tried—and failed—to keep updated and organized by order of priority, until it felt like too much and he _had_ to leave school to go cross some items off that list, because surely mending Sam's pants and unclogging the kitchen sink was more important than sitting with his thumb up his ass for another hour or two, unable to follow what the teacher was going on about, wasn't it?

At least the frowning had made the student body leave him alone too. The good students steered clear of him, the bullies knew not to mess with him, and the other so-called punks and bad boys lost interest as soon as they realized that Dean wouldn't go for petty vandalism, wouldn't steal for the fun of it, wouldn't even smoke, and how lame was that?

(Dean didn't smoke, because a pack of cigarettes cost $2, and $2 meant a couple more boxes of pasta, that is to say food lasting them till the end of the week. But somehow Dean was the only one who seemed to get that.)

Now he just shrugs, pretending that it was all so long ago he doesn't remember.

"You weren't at our ten years reunion," Novak concludes, for some reason.

Dean snorts. "Well, you know. You kind of need to graduate to land an invitation to that kind of V.I.P. event."

"You got your GED, though. Since you're here." Novak smiles. "I'm glad that you get to pursue a higher education now that you want to."

Dean returns the smile, although his is a weak one. Because he knows tons of people who never went to college, or dropped out halfway through, or never even finished high school, but who don't need a stupid degree to feel good about themselves, or to make their dreams come true, or even to get a job that pays more than minimal wage. People whose greatness shines through no matter what. People not like him.

He doesn't know if Novak perceives any of that. He considers Dean for a couple seconds, presses his lips together and says: "I have a confession to make."

"Oh yeah?" Dean says, both glad for the change of topic and intrigued. "Do tell."

"I already knew—or at least strongly suspected—that you were a student here. I saw your name on the roster to my class, and dates of birth are included in the table."

Shit.

"You never showed, though," Novak goes on, softly probing.

"Ah, yeah," Dean says, scrambling for an explanation that isn't _I saw you in that classroom and the combined realization of how lame my life is compared to yours and of how that dumb schoolgirl crush I had on you nearly twenty years ago never quite went away was too much for me to handle, so I hightailed it our of there like the pussy I am_. "Turns out there was a conflict of schedule and I had to switch to another class last minute."

Novak's eyes dart to Dean's badly concealed textbook; he's probably connecting the dots.

"I hope that other class is interesting," he says.

"It is, actually. Surprisingly." Carried by the guilt born from his little lie, Dean feels the need to add: "I'm kinda bummed about yours though. It looked pretty awesome in the description."

"It did?" Novak says, like he's surprised, like the class wasn't already half full of eager students by the time Dean fled with his tail between his legs.

Dean shrugs and nods. "Kind of have a thing for fucked up dystopian books," he admits.

Novak smiles so wide it shows teeth, and Dean gets to see up close how deeply it now makes his eyes crinkle.

"You're in luck, then. It's a class I give every fall term."

Dean freezes. "Really." He makes sure not to let his smile drop off his face.

"Really." Novak bends forward conspiratorially. "As it turns out, you're not the only one who likes… fucked up dystopian novels."

"Oh," Dean lets out, and seriously, it's not fair that after all this time the effect Novak has on him seems to have only worsened. "Well, then," he stutters, "I guess we'll have to wait and see if I'm still here next year for that."

"You will be," Novak says, like Dean failing pitifully isn't even in the realm of possibilities. "And I will look forward to seeing you in my class."

 

*

 

"And?" people will ask, years later, captivated by a story that is much more entertaining than what they expected when they asked the awkward 'so how did you two meet?' as a filler. "Did he? See you in his class, I mean."

"He did," Dean will reply.

"He was a great contributor to the conversation, which ended up being one of the liveliest and most compelling I ever had with a class," Cas will add with that smile of his, which will be a nice way to say that Dean got into a verbal fight with more or less everyone in the room. "And his essay was one of the best I ever graded on the subject."

"What this guy isn't telling you—even though he knows it by know—is that I was so afraid of looking like a dumbass that I started working on the thing the very day he gave us the instructions. On the first week of class."

People will laugh, and Cas will roll his eyes because to him it isn't what matters. Dean will go on:

"I swear, by the time we had to turn it in, I hadn't slept in three days, had rewritten it five times, and the bibliography was twice as long as required."

"Yet all the references were cleverly and correctly used," Cas will point out.

"Because I'd read them all at least twice. Seriously, I spent so much time on that paper I almost failed two of my other classes. That's what he isn't telling you."

"What _he_ isn't telling you is that by 'almost failed' he means that he got a B+ or an A- instead of an A+."

By that point people will be smiling, utterly charmed by their small act. From time to time, though, there will be the usual swine whose smile will turn suggestive, whose eyes will grow speculative as they jump from Dean to Cas, until they burst out with it and ask:

"And so this," they'll leer, gesturing at the both of them, at their proximity, at Dean's arm slung around Cas' waist. "Was this already going on back then?" They'll grin, lecherous, thinking they smell a hint of scandal when really, it's only their own stink. "Someone could get into trouble for that."

Dean, used to such individuals, will make himself laugh and shake his head. "God, no," he'll say. "It took me years of quiet, mortifying crushing to actually gather the courage to ask this guy out," he'll say, squeezing Cas' waist in a gesture that is actually appeasing, because by then Cas will be glaring daggers at the other guest, outraged on Dean's behalf more than on his, furious that one might assume Dean got any of his good grades through favoritism or blackmail instead of sheer talent, determination and hard work.

Other times though, people will be more decent, and enquire about whether Dean got his degree in the end.

"I did," Dean will say, and not add that it was high on that success, dizzy with the two (or three…) beers he'd all too hastily downed, that he finally got the guts to suggest he and Cas go out some time, just the two of them, to celebrate his degree and Cas' latest publication.

If prompted by their audience he'll go over his transfer to a four years university, his getting a job in the field he was aiming for, his specializing into car accessories after a while, especially those meant for kids once he became an uncle.

"You might know some of them," Cas will butt in, because of the two of them he'll be the worst when in comes to bragging about his significant other. "I think the greatest success to date remains the Jr. Champ' car seat."

That's when Dean will know for sure who in their audience is a parent and who isn't, because the expression of the former will change, slacken, before they dissolve into thanks and praise, because _really? You're the one who designed it?_ And Dean will have to take it all with a smile, even though compliments make him uncomfortable, because he knows, okay? He knows it's easy to use and to adapt to any kind of car, old and new, he knows it's comfortable for the baby and light to carry and most of all affordable—because it's _meant_ to be, because he and his team slaved for weeks, for months, to make it that way.

(He remembered trying to buckle Sammy in the Impala and fearing he'd fly off through a windshield at every bump in the road.)

Sure, he'll be glad that he metaphorically saved so many people's life (although he's gotten the more earnest and heartfelt thanks of people who meant it _literally_ , because of course the Jr. Champ' will be the safest seat in the car too). But he'll always feel awkward too, and the slightest bit baffled, because isn't that what engineers are supposed to do, make people's life easier in a way that is affordable to all?

Meanwhile Cas will be beaming, the goob. Which is why Dean will prefer it when people focus on him instead, ask whether he stayed at the community college (he did) or gave in to the draw of bigger places, better pay, greater recognition (he didn't). Then Dean will be the one beaming, and preening, because yeah, he totally bagged the best prospect in the damn room, and he knows it.

But no matter how the conversation goes, they'll soon feel the need to escape it, to escape whatever party, mixer, post-conference gathering this is. Soon they'll make their goodbyes, and go home.

It'll be quiet there. Dean'll cook them something that'll be more substantial than the measly finger food they were served; Cas will do the dishes. They'll check their emails—Cas replying to questions from students and enquiries from his hierarchy; Dean making sure nothing blew up since he left work early and finding a message from Madison, his sister-in-law, with "THIS" as a title and a link to an article on a feminist blog. They'll wrap this up, settle on the couch for one or two (or three…) episodes of the latest soap they fell into ("It's in Spanish," Dean'll argue when Sam will find out and gently razz them; they'll totally be learning the language and getting ready to go on a trip to Mexico any day). After that Dean'll retreat to the bathroom to wash up.

When he'll reemerge, in nothing but a pair of jeans, he'll find Cas at his desk, glasses on while he goes over some copies. Dean will wait for him to finish reading the one he's holding, then sidle up to him and rub a hand along his shoulders, bend down to nuzzle at his hair, his ear.

"Dean," Cas will say. He'll let Dean turn his chair around. His eyes will widen, and Dean will grin, before he'll straddle Cas. Cas' hands will come up to clasp his hips.

They'll kiss.

Inquisitive, Cas' fingers will dip under the waist of Dean's jeans—and pause when they'll catch on lace. "Hey there," Dean will purr with a smug smirk. "Professor."

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [here on tumblr](princessniitza.tumblr.com) if you wanna come say hi or cry over Dean's terrible childhood.


End file.
